


Parental Oversight

by ifreet



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-08
Updated: 2007-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifreet/pseuds/ifreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert solves a mystery -- and realizes he never warned Benton about the Fraser curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parental Oversight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eledhwenlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eledhwenlin/gifts).



> (With thanks to LJ's allzugern for assistance with a canon question.)

"Napkins." Benton's latest partner dropped a small stack of paper napkins onto the counter between the holstein-patterned plates, started to sit down, then bounced off the stool like he'd ricocheted. "Forks! You probably want a fork."

"Twitchy, even for him," Robert Fraser remarked as the detective dodged back around the counter and into the kitchen. He noted that the area around Benton's left eye tended to tense up appreciably when he was addressed. Robert hoped the boy wasn't developing a case of nerves; one Tiberius in the family was more than enough.

"Hm." Benton's reply was noncommittal. His partner glanced up from his rummaging and half smiled before dropping Benton's gaze.

Robert took in the surroundings. Benton was out of uniform, and there were no case files on the coffee table. This was strictly a social call then, meant to keep the wheels of partnership greased. It was odd that they were eating in the designated area; the two of them had fallen into a habit of eating on the couch. Perhaps they were leery of attempting to dislodge Diefenbaker. He shook his head. Benton had overindulged the creature as a pup and was paying for it now. A glance at the plates confirmed the work of his nose but added another puzzle -- it was unusual for them to bother with plates when they were sharing a pizza, much less the formality of forks.

Robert sidled around the counter, tracking a fainter, albeit pleasant odor back to the detective. Unfortunately, he chose that very moment to extract a pair of forks from the drying rack in the sink and return to his seat, passing right through Robert in the process. He shivered. That never became any less disconcerting. The Yank paused a step beyond him to hitch his shoulders and roll his neck as though adjusting an uncomfortable holster. Since he wasn't wearing one, that seemed unlikely to help. It served him right, walking through people like that.

He glanced back at his son, who was rubbing his forehead. A muscle in his jaw jumped. Robert frowned. Filial concern was all well and good, but one needn't take it to extremes. "Keep clenching your teeth like that, and you'll wear them out, like Old Sam Soft-Jaw. Of course, he was called 'Soft-Jaw,' because it was well-known the man couldn't take a punch, not because of his atrocious dentition, but I'm sure you see the principle."

Both the forks were set atop the napkins with a clatter. The detective sat and once again jumped back to his feet. Perhaps the stool was spring-loaded. "Look, I gotta -- I'll be right back. Go ahead and start without me." He hightailed it to the bedroom. Diefenbaker whuffled as he passed but remained lying on the sofa.

Robert leaned over and poked at the abandoned seat. Nothing happened. He glanced at the half-closed door. "Very odd."

"Go away," Benton hissed at him, despite the utter lack of sibilants.

Ungrateful, he called it. Here he was, providing valuable and obviously much needed guidance from the beyond, when he could just as easily be working on his memoirs, but did his son ever acknowledge his efforts? No. Considering how well manners had been drilled into Robert, he was appalled at how lenient his mother must have been on her grandson. He drew himself up to deliver a clearly belated lecture on civility, then paused. He could feel the clues slotting into place: click, click, click.

"The Yank thinks he's in love with you," he exclaimed.

Benton's stool developed the same mysterious problem as his partner's. He didn't quite fall off, but for a moment it seemed a near thing. Robert shook his head dolefully. That was exactly why chairs should have backs and be located closer to the ground.

"He's _what_?"

"No need to make him feel bad about it, son," he said reprovingly. "It's not as though it's something he can help. The Fraser Curse, you know."

"The Fraser... ? Dad, you're not making any sense."

"The Curse. The _Curse_," he prompted. "I told you about the Curse."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

"No, you --" Benton squeezed his eyes shut and sighed in a manner more befitting a teenager than a grown man. "Please just tell me about this so-called curse."

"Nothing so-called about it. People who work with Frasers are doomed to fall in love with them."

"And?"

"That's it. Doomed." He fluttered a hand dismissively. It was a curse; he had no idea what more his son expected beyond doom.

Benton looked dubious, as though a man talking to his father's ghost had any right to question curses, then his eyes widened. "Good Lord, you and Buck -"

"No! No, don't be ridiculous! I loved your mother, and Buck loved his wife." He knew he should never have let Buck call him 'Bob,' however harmless it seemed at the time. Allow a man to use a nickname for you, and one day even your grown son will think the two of you were carrying on.

"Grandmother and Grandfather worked together before they married?"

"Well, not as such, no. The library was your grandmother's vocation; though your grandfather naturally shouldered some of the responsibility when they married. He was more of a ... literate trapper. Look, you're focusing on the exceptions. The point is, your partner has fallen for the Curse. Oh, yes, he's a goner, son." He made a gesture meant to encompass the plates, napkins, silverware, traces of aftershave, and - possibly, all things being relative - cleaner apartment. "He's trying to impress you."

He watched as Benton put the pieces together for himself and saw the light of a puzzle well-solved come into his eyes. "You may be right about that."

Robert scowled. He _may_ be right?

But Benton's attention was all directed inward, and his face turned down, as he mulled the theory over and fitted in those clues to which Robert hadn't been privy. Then Benton looked up and smiled at him. And had his heart still been beating, it would have stopped: there was that much of his mother in his smile. "Yes, I think you may be right."

Of course he was. Benton simply hated someone reaching the obvious conclusion before he did. That showed poor sportsmanship in need of correcting... but Benton was already heading towards the half-closed door.

He paused at the threshold and turned. "Please stay out," he enunciated as clearly as if the words were directed to the half-wolf, but he held his father's eyes as he said it.

The door closed softly behind him. Diefenbaker turned his head and grumbled.

"I don't know why he thinks I would intrude. I think it's good of Benton to consider his partner's privacy, even if said partner wouldn't know I'm there." He paused, though, discretion warring with natural curiosity. No, best to go. Surely Benton would let him know how the man had taken it later.

But even as he decided to leave, a muffled thud reverberated through the apartment. He hadn't considered violence, but he realized should have. It would be quite a come-down in the world to believe you had freewill only to have your feelings revealed as the mechanizations of a curse. He strode forward to offer Benton what help he could but was arrested midstep by a moan that sounded distinctly like "Ray."

Followed by a groan by an entirely different voice, with no intervening sounds.

Diefenbaker snorted and closed his eyes.

"Yes, well." And with a thought, he vanished from the apartment.


End file.
